“Did you get him?” said a voice from Harry’s bed.
“No,” Harry replied. “That’s the third day that little Kosovan fucker has had my milk. Where’s the Old Bill when you need ’em?”
“Yeah, you want the Filth wrapped round yer, ’Arry, don’tcha, with a front room full of moody trainers.” The voice, lacerated by 16 years of dedicated 40-a-day trachea-trashing nicotine abuse, belonged to Elaine Geggus, Harry’s new and currently nude next door neighbour on the run-down Turpin estate in Stratford, East London. “They’re no fucking use anyway,” he replied.
“They’d hand him over to a social worker, who’d get a report from a shrink saying he had developed antisocial tendencies as a result of his traumatic childhood, and the courts would give him a free holiday to fucking Barbados courtesy of me and you. Well, maybe not me and you but all the law-abiding, hardworking mugs who pay their taxes, when we all know he’s a two-bob toe-rag who needs to learn you don’t nick off yer own.”
Harry paused for breath. “Why can’t he get on the bus out to Epping and nick off the posh fuckers out there?”
Elaine sat up to light up her first fag of the morning. The duvet fell off her revealing a pair of heavy breasts adorned with stretch marks. Her nipples were huge and pierced, genuinely like the “blind cobbler’s thumbs” to which stag comics always referred, Harry thought. She looked like a less stylish Annie Lennox … if you could imagine the sainted Eurythmics singer with “Satan’s Slaves” tattooed on her biceps and a swallow in flight with a scroll bearing the name “Dougal” on her backside. Still, in a bad light, if you squinted …
Harry had moved in three weeks before and had taken four days to get ex-biker girl Elaine into his bed. Dougal, it turned out, was her deceased pit-bull. Elaine explained he had been her only true friend since her old man pissed off with her sister. Harry realised he was deep in Jerry Springer territory, hobnobbing – make that hobgoblin, knobbing – with the underclass and loving every minute. Once you got past her ingrained all-men-are-bastards defences, Elaine was a good kid, with a decent sense of humour. She drank vodka and Red Bull, loved Iron Maiden as much as she did her three kids, and above all she really enjoyed shagging.
Harry stepped out of his boxers and got back into bed. Elaine stubbed her fag out and sunk under the duvet to nosh amicably on his morning glory. Her hand moved under the pillow and back again. Harry heard a buzz like a muffled road drill outside, then realised it was coming from down below. Elaine did love her toys and the thought that all biker girls love other girls – a lingering Mod prejudice – had never left his mind for a second …
Two orgasms later Elaine lit up again.
“You want me to fix you some breakfast, babe?” she asked.
“No,” replied Harry, ever the gentleman. “You fuck off next door and get them kids ready to bunk off school.”
He pulled £20 from a wad of notes on the bedside cabinet and laid it between her breasts. “Sort yerself out some puff and get the clan some Teletubby-flavoured pop tarts or whatever kids eat these days. I’ll get something out.”
Elaine kissed him. “You’re a lovely man, H.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
She pulled on a tight black jumper, black miniskirt and black sandals, put the kettle on for him and left. It was 7.57 am.
Thanks to Elaine, half of Clegg House believed Harry Tyler was making a reasonable living as a third-division tealeaf. Everything about his flat, the vast array of door locks, the alarm, the DVD player, said he was a small-time villain who’d had a few nice touches. The sparse furnishings confirmed his divorcee cover story. He never worked regular hours but always told her he had “things to do, people to see”. It was particularly true today. Today he was making First Contact.
Shortly after noon, Harry Tyler sauntered into the Sir Sidney Smith, one of three South London pubs owned by the Bakers. It was just off the Old Kent Road, a ten-minute stroll away from the New Den, or one minute fifty seconds in a squad car. Combat-ready, Harry had the Sporting Life in his hand, his mobile and £350 in cash in his pockets.
Propped up against the bar was ex-face Peter Miller, 56 years old and a confirmed lush. If you wanted moody tenners or a snide tax disc for the motor, Miller could always supply, for the customary drink on top, of course. His breath could sterilise scalpels but Miller was still trusted by the Baker firm. For all his faults, Miller had never grassed. He’d never dealt with the Filth, except once when he’d sent a probationer PC two miles out of his way to the local nick – a story he’s only told twice. This week. If he was caught holding, he took the rap, did his bird, came out and cracked on. He was your authentic South London good old boy, a likeable prat.
For Harry, hooking Miller was about as hard as signing a TV contract is for Carol Vorderman. He was over his shoulder as soon as Harry sat beside him studying form. A bit of chat about the nags and football, buy him a drink, let him see the wad, refuse to let him buy you one back, well, you had a nice win at the weekend … within half an hour, Miller was putty in his hands. Harry had four Buds and bowed out. He could find his prey any time he wanted and now they were mates for as long as he needed him.
Harry was back in the Sid three days out of the next four, claiming to have business in the area. By the end of the week, Miller wanted to super-glue himself to his generous new pal. The guy was skint – “borracic, H, some cunt knocked me” – so Harry offered him a “bulls-eye” to come and watch over him during a trade in his Stratford local. He jumped at the chance. The next day, Miller sat in the Trojan watching Harry do a deal at an adjoining table over a copy of the Daily Sport. The deal done, Miller followed the three black men out of the pub, watched them climb into a BMW and glide away. He wrote the car’s plate number down on his comic and went back in to collect his £50.
The first seeds of doubt appeared in Miller’s mind about ten minutes into the journey home. “If that’s your local, H, why get me involved?” he said. “Why not one of yer mates?”
“The spades are all local too,” Harry explained. “I needed someone they didn’t know to clock the car.
Reassured, Miller heard a business opportunity knocking. “Do you want the number checked?”
“Yeah. Know someone?”
“Possible. What’s it worth?”
“A drink.”
“A nice drink?”
“For the right info.”
“I’ll ask.”
“Whatever. I think they’re OK, but first-time trade, you know.”
“Big parcel?”
“Don’t be so fucking nosey.”
“No, no. It’s – just I know people who’ll take a lorry-load of whatever.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. It was red wine by the way.”
“I could get that shifted.”
Harry looked over at him and appeared pensive. “Tell you what,” he said eventually. “How good are them snide cockles and scores you said are about?”
“Yeah, OK. They pass in a busy boozer when the barmaid’s hands are a bit wet, but I’ve had better.”
“Sort me out half a dozen of each and I’ll see how they move down this end.”
“No problem, Harry.”
Over the next few days, Peter Miller became a regular at the Trojan. He soon realised that Harry was a respected local face. He clocked all the hounds in the boozer pull Harry into corners to discuss deals. He saw how the barmaids flirted with him. He watched how popular he was with the regulars. He lost count of the number of times he left the pub muttering into his mobile. The black economy of London E15 appeared to rely on Harry Tyler waking up in the morning.
On day five, Miller was trusted with the biggest secret of all. He was allowed in to Harry’s flat where Elaine made him pie and chips. Peter Miller felt honoured. This he knew was a friendship that would last forever.
Johnny Baker’s fuck-off Mercedes was winding its way over Tower Bridge when he took a call from Geraldine. She was so upset she could hard
ly speak. Thirteen minutes later he met her in The Soho House. Her face was flushed, her eyes swollen from crying. Gently Johnny coaxed the story out of her. Between sobs, she told him how her ex-lover Golding had called her into his office and closed the door behind them. He’d been drinking. He’d grabbed at her breasts and forced his tongue down her throat. When she pushed him away her ex lost it. He’d slapped her face, called her a slut and a prick teaser and told her he was going to have her sacked. Johnny Too never heard the rest of what she’d said. The red mist had already descended.
It was 8.30 pm when the Merc glided past Golding’s splendid detached home in Finchley, North London. Geraldine pointed the house out. There was a W reg Lexus on the drive, next to a series eight BMW. Johnny got out of the car.
“Be careful,” Geraldine said. Then wondered why. She wasn’t concerned with Johnny’s physical well-being, Golding was a tub of lard who got breathless popping the cork out of a bottle of Dom Perignon. But what had she started? Somehow she didn’t think Baker would be telling Golding he’d been a naughty boy, but having lit the blue touch-paper now all she could do was sit back and wait for the firework display.
Johnny Too told his driver, Tony Boniface, to pull across the drive. Geraldine had the front door in full view through the Merc’s blacked-out back windows.
Johnny walked up the drive and rang the bell. As Golding answered the door, a waft of soothing midbrow classical music filled the air.
Golding studied the man before him suspiciously. He was well-dressed, but looked brutal. “Yes?” he said.
Johnny half-smiled. “What music is that?” he asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“What music are you playing? Who’s it by?”
“What the hell has that got to do with you? Who are you and why are you disturbing our supper? What the hell do you want?”
Johnny Too grabbed Golding’s tie and dragged him out of the front door, nutting him square in the face. Golding’s broken nose went East and West as the claret gushed.
Now Johnny was shouting. “I said what fucking music is that, you snivelling cunt?” Golding clutched his nose and shook like a shellshocked war casualty.
“It’s called ‘Montagues And Capulets’,” he stuttered. “It’s by Prokofiev. P-p-please don’t hurt me. Do you want money? Let me get my wallet. Just d-d-don’t hurt me.”
By Johnny Baker standards, Golding wasn’t hurt. By the standards of reasonable men, he was battered to a pulp. When Johnny Too finally left him unconscious on the tarmac drive, a bloody mass of blubber, he looked like a whale that had been dropped 100 feet, face down on to jagged rocks.
Johnny Too smirked. “Fucking nice music, geezer,” he said. He strolled back towards the car. Geraldine saw him remove a hefty knuckle-duster from the fingers of his right hand. She felt strange. Half of her was horrified by the terrible violence she had just witnessed, but the other half was strangely excited, and just a little turned on. Confused she started to sob. Johnny opened the car door and his expression changed from psychopathic to concerned lover.
“Don’t cry, baby,” he whispered, holding her tight. “Don’t cry. He won’t ever hurt you again.”
“But my job,” she said.
“You just quit, darling. You work for me now. You are officially Johnny Baker’s PA.”
“Oh, Johnny,” she said, kissing him. “I love you so much.”
Johnny Too smiled. Then looked down at his suit trousers and scowled. “Who told that cunt he could bleed on my strides?” he said.
He had Boniface drop them off at the Tower Hotel where Johnny helped Geraldine get over the trauma of the day by introducing her to the delights of sucking cocaine off his cock in between giving her one in as many positions as he could manage.
The following lunchtime, Harry Tyler stood alone in the surprisingly busy Ned Kelly while Peter Miller did the rounds of his mates. It was the first time he had brought Harry here and now Miller was making like a bumble bee, buzzing from flower to flower telling everyone about his new pal. Harry was trying to study Templegate, but kept getting distracted by the vision of peroxide perfection that was Lesley Gore, rushed off her feet and cursing Slobberin’ Ron for taking half an hour in the khazi. Harry rang Directory Enquiries, got the number for the Ned and rang it.
“Yeah, Ned Kelly,” a harassed Lesley answered.
“Can you hear me, luv?” said Harry.
“Just about, it’s chaos in ’ere. ’Oo is it?”
“One of your customers, turn left and I’m the one waving.”
“Why are you ringing?” said Lesley, turning.
“I was just worried I was in a no-service area …”
“You cheeky sod … what can I get you?”
“Aroused, I reckon, but I’ll settle for a Bud.”
Lesley hung up and took him a cold bottle from the back of the fridge.
“And one for you?”
“I’ll have a gin and slim with you, please, darling. Thanks.”
As soon as Harry took out a note, Peter Miller was by his side.
“And the usual for Pete, please.”
Lesley pulled him a pint of Murphy’s, gave Harry his change and was off serving on the other side of the bar, giving the handsome stranger a discreet glance. There was something about him she liked, the twinkle in his eye, the rough diamond patter, the whiff of decent after-shave.
Harry downed his Bud and told Miller he had to leave.
“But you’ve only just got ’ere,” Peter protested.
“Business calls, Pete. Deals to do over my side. Laters, mate.”
“Yeah, laters.”
As Harry left, Lesley Gore gave Peter a pull. “Who was that guy?” she asked.
“’Arry?” said Peter. “Don’t worry about him, lov. He’s as sound as a pound.”
“Yeah?” replied Lesley. “Nice arse, too.”
Harry Tyler drove his latest toy, an S-reg Golf, through the Rotherhithe tunnel, turning left towards Wapping. He pulled up at the first phone box and made his call.
“Hello, boss, it’s H.”
On the other end of the line Detective Chief Inspector Lenny Kent brusquely said, “About time,” then joked, “spent all the Commissioner’s money yet?”
“Only the bits that fold. Listen, guv, I’m in. I’ve just left Miller in the Ned doing my references for me. He told me he’ll be picking up the moody scores and tenners tomorrow.”
“Good work. The operational team want a meet tonight. I’ll get a DI to ring you in the next hour on your mobile. I want all deals on tape and as much smudged up as possible. Where are you now?”
“Limehouse.”
“Can you make your way over to Brentwood for the meet?”
“Yes, guv. I’ll be an hour, hour and a half.”
The meeting went ahead and the Bushwhacker was game on. From now on, all of his moves, all of his deals and all of his new chums would be filmed by DCI Susan Long’s team. DI Ryan Suckling would be his night and day contact and DCI Lenny Kent would sign the expenses. A new plague was about to descend on South East London, a plague called Justice. Only the righteous need have no fear.
Over the next seven days, with Peter Miller’s unwitting help, every lowlife in SE1 was doing business deals in Harry’s car, or in Harry’s box van, or in a bugged-up room (but never at Harry’s flat). Concealed cameras whirled silently, tapes turned. Every snide note, every knocked-off computer and every ounce of stolen Tom was recorded while the back-up team “housed” every thief and made due note of the future exhibits. Each day brought Harry an inch closer to the Bakers.
Gary McCourt, a long-standing friend of Miller’s, had put several small amounts of counterfeit currency in Harry’s direction, and was now so confident of his contact that he, along with Miller, was even offering up small parcels of fake designer clothes and moody notes to punters in the Trojan.
Harry had to give them a pull. “Knock it on the head, lads,” he’d warned. “Christ! You’re treading on
serious toes over here.”
Miller was contrite. “Sorry, H,” he’d said almost tearfully, although that might have been the gin. He’d shaken Harry’s hand and hugged him. “Here’s my ’and, here’s my heart,” he said. “It won’t happen again, mate. My life.”
That night Harry made contact with DI Suckling who told him that the Church – the Customs & Excise – had seized a substantial quantity of wines and spirits from a Brummie blade-runner. The lorry driver had been captured with 20-foot of tax-avoided booze, when his ticket said “office equipment”.
“This could be the bait you need to raise the stakes,” Suckling observed.
“Isn’t it just,” Harry replied. “This is too big for Miller and McCourt.”
“So approach Johnny Baker.”
“Not yet, Ryan. Let the mountain come to Mohammad. I’ll dangle the hooch under Slobberin’ Ron’s greedy schnozz.”
“You know what you’re doing.”
“Too right I do.”
It was late Thursday morning at the Ned Kelly, just ahead of the rush. Harry Tyler perched himself on a stool near where Lesley Gore was serving, and flashed her a smile. “When you’re ready, luv,” he said.
She smiled back. “Be right with you, handsome.”
Doreen the cleaner was just leaving. “’Ere,” she said. “Did you see that Big Bruvva last night?”
“I would rather poke me eye out with a lit fag,” Slobberin’ Ron sneered.
“No, it’s brilliant,” said Lesley. “They’ve gotta chuck that Nasty Nick out soon.”
“Why do you want him out?” asked Harry. “Cos he’s one devious shit,” Lesley replied. “But ain’t that why it’s good telly?” said Harry. “I mean, I’ve only caught it once or twice, and to be honest I couldn’t give a shit if I never saw it again. But if you throw out all the bastards and eccentrics what are you going to be left with? It’s a soap, and soaps need villains.”
The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) Page 8
